


Whatever Remains

by fawkesy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawkesy/pseuds/fawkesy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock reunion fic- Four months after the fall,  John's psychiatrist urges him to write a letter to his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Remains

**Author's Note:**

> The quote used in this fic is from an actual Sherlock Holmes story by Arthur Conan Doyle, and was the inspiration for this fic. Enjoy(:

John Hamish Watson sat alone at the computer, the glow of the screen reflecting off of his tired face and illuminating the messy interior of apartment 221B with a sickly dim light. The cursor blinked at him from the top of an empty page. John sighed.

Four months. Four months since Hell began. Four months since his best friend leaped out of this world, leaving John behind. Mrs. Hudson had asked him if he wanted to move out and leave the memories behind, but John was having a hard time letting go. He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the place where Sherlock had lived, dumping his memories like so much garbage. John sighed again, and reluctantly began to type.

Dear Sherlock,

(John felt stupid using the formal letter format, but he couldn’t think how else to start)

My psychologist told me that writing you a letter might help me. I don’t know if it will, but I’m going to do it anyway. Four months ago, you jumped. I’ve been trying to figure out why. I tried to figure out how you could have survived. And you couldn’t have. Not really. I just can’t let you go.

He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. Dirty teacups and wrappers littered the desk. He hadn’t been letting Mrs. Hudson clean up after him very often, because she always mentioned Sherlock when she was tidying up. John would rather just be alone.

I remember once, you told me something. You said, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Well, I’ve been trying to be like you. Deducing things, I mean. I’m not as smart as you are. Were. So I have to write down lists of possibilities, and cross things off the list. I’m trying to figure out why I feel like this, and how you could have left. I keep thinking of that case we solved a week before it happened...

* * *

It was a usual gloomy London afternoon. He and Sherlock and been working on a case, and Sherlock actually seemed to be having some difficulty with this one. So far he had thrown three tantrums, broken six violin strings, and refused to either eat or shower. The case dealt with a mysterious serial killer who left no sign of breaking or entering, and had no apparent motive to kill the victims.

John was waiting outside the police tape of the site of the third victim’s death, trying to make a phone call to his girlfriend. In all honesty, he’d rather be with Sherlock, watching his brilliant mind work, but he needed to make a date so he could end things with her. Nice as she was, babysitting Sherlock was pretty much a full-time job. Unfortunately, she seemed to have taken offense last night when John left in the middle of dinner due to a text he received from Sherlock that simply said, “Come home. Now. -SH”

It turned out that all Sherlock had needed were the crime scene photos from the table in the next room, as he was too busy lying on the couch thinking to get up. John was exasperated, but strangely, he didn’t regret leaving poor Emily. Emma? God, you know it’s bad when you can’t even remember your own date’s name, though John. Either way, she wasn’t answering any of his calls now. He supposed he should have called that night, but he had forgotten.

John put his phone away and turned around towards the crime scene to look for Sherlock. Surprisingly, Sherlock was walking towards him, taking enormous ground-eating steps with his long legs. He reached John, stretching out his arms in a most uncharacteristic show of affection, and shook him by the shoulders, yelling, “JOHN! I’VE DONE IT, I SOLVED IT! THE CASE IS FINALLY CLOSED!” And with that, Sherlock Holmes kissed his best friend on the cheek. Twice.

John blinked several times, trying to process what had happened. Sherlock beamed at him. John managed to stammer out a shaky “What? How?”

“It doesn’t matter, John, and you probably wouldn’t understand it. All that matters right now is that I am brilliant and I solved the case.”

“What was the kiss for? Are you just really excited? Was that just a totally platonic kiss-on-the-cheek-between-friends, or...?” John didn’t really know what he expected in reply. The kisses had made his heart beat in a new and very interesting way. His mind boggled with the possibilities. Sherlock never had entirely denied it when John asked if he was gay...

“It was whatever you want it to be,” Sherlock replied, suddenly serious. John stared at him, and then did one of the bravest things of his life. He grabbed Sherlock by his stupid turned-up collar, pulled him down to his own height, and kissed him. Hard. On the lips.

“I kind of wanted it to be more like that,” John said when it was over, looking at Sherlock’s coat and fixing the collar instead of looking him in the eyes. When he finally did look up, Sherlock’s pale eyes were fixed on his in a not-entirely-unpleasant way. Just then, Anderson came up from behind the police tape, hands still in gloves covered in blood from the crime scene.

“Oy! You two! Get a room! This is a murder scene, for God’s sake.”

John and Sherlock left in a cab, and neither said a word. John didn’t want to make it any weirder than it already was, afraid that he had hurt Sherlock’s feelings, and Sherlock just kept looking out the window, and then back at John. Then, a week later, John watched his friend die.

* * *

I guess it doesn’t really matter if you wanted me to kiss you or not. I made a list of all the reasons I could think of of why you didn’t say anything about it. I guess now that you’re gone, it makes more sense that you didn’t want to be close to me. You didn’t want to hurt me. And I guess I understand. But I’ve been making other lists, too, and I’ve crossed off everything. I’m trying to deduce things like you, and I’ve come to two conclusions, and they are that I loved you, Sherlock Holmes. I loved you, and I still love you, and I don’t care if you didn’t love me as long as I loved you. The second thing I know is that you did not die. I saw your dead, bloody body, and you are alive. “Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” you said. The truth is that you cannot have died. You cannot have left me. And someday, you’re going to come back or I’m going to find you and I’m going to tell you that I understand. John Watson, the sidekick, destined to be left behind and overlooked next to Holmes, the famous genius consulting detective, understands why you left, and why you didn’t want to be with me, and I know that you will come back someday.

 

The cursor winked at him conspiratorially, waiting for him to write more, pour more of his heart out onto the page. John looked around at the lists hidden among the rubbish covering the room, dozens of lists with everything crossed out. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. Maybe Sherlock really had died. Maybe he was going mad. He shut the laptop, preparing for another sleepless night.

There came a knock at the door. John ignored it. Another knock, more impatient this time.

“Mrs. Hudson, go away! I’m not really in a mood to talk right now.” Whoever was at the door knocked again, louder and faster. John began to get a bit angry. He pulled himself out of the desk chair, grabbing the cane(his leg had begun bothering him again ever since Sherlock had left) from where it was perched on the corner of the desk, and limped over to the door.

“I told you, go away! I don’t want to-” He pulled the door open.

There stood Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing the same coat as always, and looked in every way the same as he had four months ago, except for a large bruise under his right eye. John’s mouth gaped open, speechless. He was convinced he’d really gone mad. Then, Sherlock spoke in the rich, chocolatey voice John remembered so well.  
“I’m back, John.” Sherlock licked his lips, unsure of how to continue. But John had no such doubts. Before he could get another word out, John took two steps forward and fell into Sherlock’s arms. Their lips met, and this time Sherlock had no qualms about kissing back. His hand wrapped around the back of the other man’s neck. John’s cane fell to the ground.


End file.
